Friction
by thewetbandit
Summary: Sarah watches as her uncle Paul's band, The Beatles, dissolves. She is devastated but knows there is little she can do. What will happen when things reach a violent crescendo with John and Paul?


**FRICTION**

'Fuck off, then!'

John grabbed his keys and left the studio. I sat next to Paul, messing with the piano keys. Paul was my uncle and his band was dissolving before my eyes.

'Let's keep going,' Paul said to George. George nodded, tuning his guitar, and they played again. I went to make tea for us. Paul didn't want it.

'Leave us be, Sarah,' he told me. I huffed and went outside. The fans were huddled around.

'Where's your uncle?'

Unfortunately, they knew who I was by now. I told them they were recording and wouldn't be out until evening and they went away, whining. They could be so annoying.

It was 1969 and the band was recording their album, _Abbey Road. _Tensions were mounting. John spent a lot of time with Yoko. He'd even moved a mattress into the studio, much to the chagrin of the others. My uncle was at the end of his tether, I knew. I was staying with him as my dad was abroad on business. He was Paul's younger brother. I loved Paul, was inspired by him, but disliked who he was becoming. He was angry all the time, hardly ate, and didn't sleep until dawn sometimes, such was the intensity of his writing process.

Paul came out at six o'clock, his bass slung across his shoulder in a leather case.

'Sorry, Sarah,' he said. We drove home and Paul made dinner. He hardly touched it but I was ravenous and devoured it. I went to watch the news while Paul messed around on his bass.

'Rumours abound that The Beatles will soon split,' intoned the newsreader. I was relieved that Paul wasn't here.

'I hope they don't split, obviously,' said a blonde fan I recognised as Alison. She was particularly passionate about my uncle and often wore an 'I Love Paul' badge on her coat. I switched off the news and lay down. I was awoken by Paul shaking me.

'Wake up, love, you've got to go to bed,' he said. I snuggled under the duvet upstairs and cried. I didn't want the band to split up. I was thirteen. They'd been together for most of my life. I hated what was happening to Paul and wished I could help him through the darkness. I knew that he had to go it alone, though. I couldn't do anything.

The next morning, we went to the studio early. Paul paid me to do simple paperwork, tidy up, make tea, sign fan magazines and things like that. I watched them run through a song. John turned up late.

'Where the hell were you?,' demanded Paul. My uncle had an ugly temper which was only exacerbated by John's smirk. He'd clearly been taking drugs.

'Lighten up,' said John, picking up a guitar. George confronted him then.

'You need to sort yourself out, Lennon,' he snapped.

'Fuck off, Harrison,' said John. Ringo threw his sticks across the room.

'I'm so sick of all this nonsense,' he shouted. Everyone turned to look at him, stunned. Ringo was usually so laidback that it was shocking to see him explode. He stormed out of the studio.

'Great,' sighed Paul, putting his face in his hands. John lit a cigarette and sat on a stool. George twanged on his guitar. I didn't know what to do so I went to make myself a cup of tea. I didn't want to be around them right now. I went outside for some fresh air and ran into Ringo.

'Alright, Sarah?,' he asked, although he sounded sadder than usual.

'Sorry about everything, Ringo.'

'It's not your fault, sweetheart. It's just John and Paul, they're driving me mad.'

'Me, too.'

'They used to be such good friends,' said Ringo. I knew all too well. John had been there from my earliest childhood, making me laugh, singing to me, buying me toys. But I hardly knew the man he'd become. Ringo hugged me, telling me that things would work themselves out, but I wasn't so sure anymore. I went to see John when everyone had left the studio.

'What is it, Sarah?'

'I hate how you and Paul are treating each other,' I said. He gazed at me behind his glasses. His stare was so intense that I had to look away. He turned my face back towards him.

'I know, love, things are ugly right now, but it'll get better, okay? Trust me.'

'I don't know if I can anymore, John.'

He took me for dinner. When I got home, Paul was furious.

'Where have you been?'

'With John.'

'Oh, I see.'

Something in his tone really scared me. I'd never seen him so angry.

'I'm sorry, Paul.'

'You could have phoned!'

'I'm sorry.'

Paul waved a hand at me and I went to the spare bedroom I'd been staying in. I was so fed up with all of it. I wrote a letter to my dad, planning to post it tomorrow. I couldn't sleep for ages. When we got to the studio the next day, Paul and I were the only ones there. Paul went to the loo and I sat at the piano. Someone rested a hand on my shoulder and I spun around. It was George. I loved George. He was so kind and gentle and always bought me records.

'Hello, George,' I said.

'Hi, Sarah. How are you?'

He sat next to me, putting an arm around me. I blushed, as I fancied George a bit. He kissed the top of my head and I nestled my head in the nook of his neck. Having a Beatle for an uncle has its advantages, I won't lie.

'Not good, George. I hate what's happening.'

George sighed.

'Me too, love. Me too.'

The others arrived and they started playing. Then Yoko came.

'What's she doing here?,' asked Ringo.

'She's my wife,' said John, jutting out his chin.

'Yeah well, she's not in the band,' said George, putting down his guitar. Yoko curled up on the mattress, peering out from under a mass of frizzy black hair. She gave me the creeps and I wondered what would happen next.

'She's my wife,' John repeated, sitting next to Yoko.

'Get her out!,' cried Paul, throwing his bass on the floor. Everyone jumped, alarmed by the crash it made. John strode over to Paul and punched him in the face. Paul fell backwards off his piano stool. I gasped, hurrying to my uncle. George managed to wrest John away. John took Yoko's hand and left, panting like a newly released bull. Paul pinched his nose, holding a tissue to stem the blood. No one spoke.

'Fucking insane,' muttered Ringo. I started to cry.

'Why do you keep doing this?,' I exclaimed, running from the studio. I ignored the fans and raced down the street. Suddenly, I tripped and fell hard on the pavement, grazing my knees. I got to my feet, wiping pebbles from my palms. Tears coursed down my cheeks and I rubbed at them with the back of my hand. I leaned against a wall, struggling to compose myself. I couldn't get the image of John charging at Paul out of my head. He'd looked so ferocious. It was horrible. I wanted to go home so badly and pined for my parents. I came back to the house late. Paul didn't seem to notice me enter the kitchen and take a leftover sandwich from the fridge. I felt like I didn't exist as I ate.

'I'm sorry you had to see that today, Sarah,' he said finally.

'Yeah,' was all I could manage. The following morning, there was a bruise on his cheek and nose. We ate breakfast in silence before heading to the studio. I signed magazines and made tea. None of them spoke to each other, they simply recorded their songs. The silence was awful. Usually, they joked and laughed, but now, they could barely look at each other. They finished earlier than usual and Paul took me for dinner. I didn't have much of an appetite.

'What's wrong?,' asked Paul.

'What do you think?'

'Sorry,' he said. He seemed to be saying sorry so often that it had become hollow and insincere. When we got home, we didn't speak and I went to bed. The next day we weren't in the studio. Paul was in the study all day, writing. I went out for a walk and met George.

'Hello, Sarah.'

He hugged me and we laughed together like old times, although I could see the exhaustion in George's eyes and demeanour. He'd lost the vibrancy of past years. This was destroying him. We had to battle through fans at a street corner on the way to see a new film. It was a pleasant distraction and George bought me a huge bowl of ice-cream afterwards.

'I know things are bad right now, Sarah.'

'They're worse than they've ever been.'

'I don't think the band will be making another album,' I confessed. My head reeled. I knew things were bad, but were they that bad? George saw the tears in my eyes and took my hand in his.

'I love you, Sarah. Remember that.'

The band released their album to great acclaim. I was at the launch party, but couldn't enjoy myself when I noticed that Paul and John hardly spoke all night. The following year, they announced that they were breaking up. By this time, I was back at home but I begged Dad to let me take the train to see Paul.

'He'll be delicate, Sarah,' Dad warned. When I got to Paul's place, I was horrified. He was in bed at two in the afternoon. The room was littered with beer cans, cigarette butts and scrunched up balls of paper. I shook him.

'What?,' he grumbled. He hardly spoke all weekend and smoked endlessly. I went home appalled at who my uncle had become. I went to see him again the next week.

'You have to snap out of this,' I told him as he scooped dry cereal from the box and shoved it into his mouth. He was unshaven and unwashed so I made him have a shower and then we went out for a walk. He insisted on wearing a hat and sunglasses, not wanting to be recognised. I had to tear myself away from him on Sunday evening.

'I'll be fine, Sarah,' he whispered. And he was, but the healing process was a slow one. But he got through it, and I couldn't admire or respect him more for that.


End file.
